I watch her chest rise and fall with rapid breaths, see how the vintage purse presses against the swell of her breasts with each inhale.
Christ.
I’m standing here watching a woman confess to theft, and all I can think about is the curve of her body, the way her lips part when she’s trying not to cry, the fact that she smells like vanilla and desperation.
“So you stole from God.” My voice is harsher than I intend. I need the distance, need the anger to keep me from doing something unforgivable.
Her chin lifts again, defiance flashing in those shifting eyes. “I stole from a lockbox. God doesn’t need money. My grandmother does.”
“That money was donated by parishioners who trust us to use it wisely,” I counter, taking another step forward.
She doesn’t retreat this time, just stands her ground, and I’m close enough now to see the pulse hammering in her throat, close enough to catch the scent of her shampoo mixed with the vanilla and cinnamon that clings to her clothes. “People who work hard and give what little they have because they believe in this church.”
“People who have roofs over their heads,” she shoots back, her voice gaining strength. “People who aren’t three days from eviction. People whose grandmothers aren’t dying because they can’t afford care.”
The fire in her eyes does something to me, something dangerous.
I’ve spent twenty years controlling myself, denying myself, building walls so high nothing could breach them.
But this woman—this beautiful, desperate thief—is making those walls crack.
Marcus clears his throat. “Father, perhaps we should discuss this privately?”
I don’t take my eyes off Charlie. “Miss Davis, do you have any idea what the consequences of this could be? If I call the police?—”
“Then call them.” Her voice is steady now, resigned. “At least in jail I’ll have a roof over my head. And maybe the publicity will shame the hospital into keeping my grandmother.”
Elijah makes a soft sound, something between sympathy and admiration.
I glance at him and see the same dangerous interest in his crystalline eyes that I’m fighting in myself.
He’s watching her the way he watches sheet music before playing something beautiful and complicated.
I look back at Charlie, at the way she’s holding herself together through sheer force of will, at the pride and shame and desperation warring in her expression. She’s wearing a sundress that probably cost three dollars at a thrift store, and she’s the most captivating thing I’ve seen in two decades.
This is wrong.
Everything about this moment is wrong.
I should call the police.
I should let the law handle this. I should maintain the boundaries that keep me safe, that keep everyone safe.
But I think about the pact in the crypt. About never abandoning something good. About protecting what matters.
And I think about Rose Davis, who’s been a faithful parishioner for longer than I’ve been alive, who deserves better than dying alone in a state facility.
“Put the money back,” I say quietly.
Charlie’s face crumbles. “Please. I’m begging you. She’s all I have. She’s the only one who stayed.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I know what it’s like to be alone, to have everyone leave.
I know what it’s like to be desperate enough to do terrible things.
My hands are shaking as I reach for my rosary beads, wrapping them around my knuckles until the pressure grounds me. I can feel Marcus and Elijah watching, waiting to see what I’ll do. The weight of their trust, of our pact, presses down on me.
I take a breath. Make a decision that will change everything.
